


September 21st

by thewaitwasworthitlove



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Infidelity, M/M, Minor Character Death, Pre and Post Reichenbach, implied consensual infidelity
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-11
Updated: 2014-06-12
Packaged: 2018-02-04 08:02:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1771702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewaitwasworthitlove/pseuds/thewaitwasworthitlove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes and John Watson have an agreement. </p>
<p>For two days each year, they slip away from their families, their responsibilities, their beloved city and fall into one another. </p>
<p>Can a love that is measured in hours and minutes survive the tests of time?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prelude: September 20th, 2026

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Hello there! This fic is based off of a FANTASTIC movie staring Alan Alda (be still my fluttering heart) called "Same Time, Next Year." I loved the idea, and wondered how it could fit into this universe. 
> 
> The result is this. Understand, obviously, this fic is going to dive into infidelity. It is heart wrenching, and I understand if that squeaks you out. If it does: stop reading. That being said, if you're hesitant, give it a go. I promise, as a child of divorce that was triggered by marital infidelity, I don't tread lightly on the subject. There are going to be consequences, and fall out. Be prepared. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy, and I will update as often as I can. I have the entire fic mapped. It will be written. Pinky swears and ice cream. (I'm lying about the ice cream, totally telling the truth on the pinky swears). 
> 
> You can find me on tumblr at: http://www.tumblr.com/blog/thewaitwasworthitlove

**September 20th, 2026**

Mycroft silently pondered why it was always he who was called to battle in the early hours of the morning. Mary Watson had been quite insistent that his work could wait. Yes, Mary. Let me just call up Iran and tell them to take a pause. Yet, here he was standing at a cheery, red front door.

He paused before walking through the open threshold of the Watsons’ home. It was the average, middle class house of two average, middle-aged people and their two children. He’d been here a handful of times before and found himself wandering towards the commotion of the kitchen.

The children were dashing about, running to and fro hunting for lost pencil bags and trying to finish last night’s maths homework over their breakfast eggs. Mary sat at the table, peaceful in the chaos of her well-worn family routine.

“Hamish, call me when you leave your match, alright? I’ll be there to pick you up by the time you’re back at your school. Jules, for the last time, no. Twelve is far too young to go to a concert unattended. I don’t care what Mrs. Jacobsen lets Alex do, I’m not Mrs. Jacobsen, and you aren’t Alex, alright?”

Mycroft stopped at the kitchen door and all three heads swiveled towards him.

“Uncle Myc!” Julie shrieked. Hamish grinned from his homework, his blond hair sticking up all over his head and his deep blue eyes warm. He would be handsome one day, just like his father. With any other children in the world, well anyone else in the world for that matter, Mycroft would have bristled both at the nickname and the hug he now found himself enveloped in, but these were John Watson’s children. They were closest thing he’d ever have to his own, and for some reason they loved him almost as much as they loved his baby brother. (Almost, but not quite).

“Ah, Julia, your mother is right you know,” he said looking down at the young blonde girl wrapped around his waist. “Twelve is far too young to go to a concert unescorted in the general public.” He dropped his voice to a stage whisper, “But, luckily for you I happen to know a couple of people at Wembley. I’m sure Anthea would be happy to escort you and Ms. Jacobsen through the VIP section with a couple of very attentive and very invisible guards.” This would cause him more work today, but it was worth the phone calls, the strop Anthea would be in, and the overtime pay to see Julia so happy.

The girl gave him a wide grin and looked hesitantly at her mother.

“Hello, Mycroft,” Mary greeted from over her tea before turning her gaze to Julia and sighing. “Yes, Jules, yes. As long as Anthea is okay with it AND you text me every hour. Understood?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good, now off with both of you. You’ll be late at this rate.”

The children rushed out the door as Mycroft took the seat across from Mary and the waiting cup of tea. He began to ask where John was when the man himself came down the stairs.

He walked into the kitchen already dressed for work. Dark blue sweater, playing up both his eyes and the graying ash of his blond hair. He grabbed a piece of toast and pecked Mary on the cheek.

“Um, morning, Mycroft,” he said awkwardly, “Not every morning I come downstairs to you.”

“Yes, well I decided to intercede in Julia and Mary’s constant fight over that infernal concert. Anthea will be taking the girls, and I wanted to run it by Mary first, of course,” he lied smoothly. In fact, he had no idea why Mary had called him here at this hour. She hadn’t said over the phone. “It will make our monthly dinners much more enjoyable if the two women in the room aren’t in a perpetual sulk.”

The Watsons had been coming to Mycroft’s home the first Thursday night of the month for dinner for as long as they’d been married. At first dragging a very reluctant Sherlock, and later their own children as well. Greg had laughed at the idea of Sherlock doing something as utterly domestic as attending a dinner party, but regardless, every month he had come. Sometimes covered in the muck and grime of the London underbelly, sometimes hollow-eyed and quiet, and sometimes completely bored out of his mind, but he had always come nonetheless.

“Right, well that will set Jules right, I’m sure,” John said. He pecked Mary on the head, “I love you, and I’ll be home Sunday. Hopefully the lecturers aren’t as bloody awful as last time. Nearly passed out on Stamford’s shoulder.”

Mary giggled indulgently and kissed John’s still bowed head. “Have a safe trip, dear. I’ll manage to keep the peace here.”

John chuckled and walked out of the kitchen. Mary held the smile until she heard the front door open and shut. Then her face fell.

“How long have you known?” Mycroft asked coolly. The date hadn’t escaped him. September 20th, making tomorrow September 21st.

“Years,” she answered dryly. “At first, I thought I was wrong.” She looked down at her drink, as she spoke. “John’s usually a terrible liar. Turns out he isn’t, not when he really doesn’t want to be found out, not when he thinks he’s protecting me. So I faced truth.” She took a drink from her tea, “Every year my husband makes his escape. 47 hours and 58 minutes from 12:01 am on September 21st to 11:59 pm September 22nd. He’s never eager to leave. He’s never in a strop when he comes back.” She sat down her tea and looked directly at Mycroft.

“Every year, same as clockwork. 47 hours and 58 minutes, every second of it given to Sherlock Holmes. 47 hours and 58 minutes are enough for him to make it a whole year. That’s all the time my husband gives himself to the love of his life, and that’s all the time your brother asks for. Sherlock nearly went to prison to protect me from my past. He loves me and my children like we were his own, and he does not begrudge us John’s attention or affection measured out in months and years, so I don’t begrudge him John’s whole-hearted love measured in hours and minutes.”

Mycroft nodded. He had known for ages. He had tried calling Sherlock for a case. No answer. He had checked all the obvious places. The flat, the Yard, the drug houses. No one had seen Sherlock since the night before. He was at his desk pondering, when his phone rang.

“Mr. Holmes has been located, Sir,” Anthea had told him briskly.

“And?” he had asked, trying to ignore the cool pool of dread in his stomach. It had been years since Sherlock had used with any real vigor, but he couldn’t help but feel anxious anyway.

“He and Dr. Watson are at the Sussex cottage. They woke the groundskeepers at approximately 12:55 last night to enter the home.”

Two days later he’d received another call from Anthea telling him that they had left. Since, every year Anthea would call with the same two messages, two days apart. He tried to look for evidence of their clandestine relationship when they came back to London, but they were the same as always. Arguing, laughing, and desperately in love from a far. From Mycroft’s erstwhile efforts, he found no proof that they at any time indulged themselves in one another save those two days a year.

Mycroft looked at Mary and took in the dark circles under her eyes, the waxiness under her typically British complexion for the first time. “So, if you’ve known for so long Mary, I take it that is not the reason for our social visit.”

“No, it isn’t.” She picked the tea up and took another long sip, closing her eyes at its warmth.

“Well? Are you in trouble?” Mycroft continued.

Mary laughed lightly, “I’m dying, Mycroft.”


	2. September 21st, 2010

**September 21st, 2010**

September had always been John’s favorite month. When he was a boy, it was when school had settled in and sports had started up. September was a wonderful month. The heat of the summer chased away with the first cool breaths of fall. It wasn’t yet cold and rainy and usually the weather was a clear as it ever was for England, giving glimpses of breathtaking blue skies. Everything seemed more alive in September as though the plants and animals were giving it all they had to rage against the impending season. It straddled the line between the life of summer and the gradual death of autumn. It was the time of Indian Summers.

It was during one of those Indian Summers John had his first kiss. Susan Tilley was a beautiful girl with eyes the color of cinnamon and fiery red hair. She was Scottish, and while the other boys teased her mercilessly, although good naturedly, John had looked at her and nearly choked on all the butterflies in his stomach. She had kissed him after practice one day. He was sweaty and in Rugby shorts and she had kissed him softly like a whispered promise between two friends.

Later after the butterflies had went back to being insipid little caterpillars, he’d kept that promise and they still were friends.

In university, he had been at a house party in London on a chilly September evening when Chad, one of his mates, had leaned over and drunkenly pressed his lips to John’s neck. John had stiffened at first. They were both pissed. If this was some sort of mistake on Chad’s part, it would be best to stop this now. He had looked at Chad, and those big green eyes had widened before dragging down to look at his lips. Chad kissed him, and it had felt like a nuclear explosion. Ooh. John had thought. Suddenly, lots of things began clicking in place. Hints and thoughts through childhood, repressed fantasies of adolescence. Oh. Alright. Fine. More than fine, actually. Brilliant. And after that crisis, he had thrown himself into kissing Chad with all the force he could muster, which turned out to be quite a lot.

Later, when they’d inevitably said their goodbyes, they’d agreed to be friends, and John had silently thanked Chad for awakening a part of himself he may have always denied.

* * *

  
They’d just come back from Dartmoor, and the Hound now dealt with, they had come up the stairs of 221B to deal with, well apparently everything that lay between them.

John slammed the door shut and turned on Sherlock. John was still fuming about Sherlock's lovely cuppa at the hotel.

“Just once, Sherlock. Just once could you fill me in?” John pleaded. John stalked to the kitchen and began slamming through the processes of making tea, careful to do everything himself. Not that it mattered. He always made the tea. Well, almost always. Well, always when his idiot flatmate didn't fancy trying to drug him.

“I couldn’t John. It would have invalidated the results.” Sherlock explained as though John were approximately three years of age.

“Right, yeah, perfectly sound reason to drug someone, Sherlock.” He turned to face Sherlock and narrowed his eyes.

Sherlock smirked, “Seemed reasonable at the time.”

“Christ, Sherlock. I could have hurt myself, or you, or anyone.”

John had been standing at the kitchen counter, and there he was still, now with six feet of Sherlock Holmes pushed into him, he seemed to understand how much John was frightened of losing control. He pulled John into a bone bruising hug.

“No, John. I wouldn’t have let you.” He breathed into John’s hair.

And then John had looked up, and Sherlock had looked down. Now he was thanking God for Chad Osborne and Susan Tilley, because as Sherlock Holmes pressed himself from forehead to knees into him, he knew exactly what to do. He clutched Sherlock’s head, thumbs resting on those high-planed cheek bones and kissed him. Full stop. John could almost hear the synapse in Sherlock’s brain tear apart and go offline and he relished in the thought that a mere kiss could make Sherlock Holmes putty in his hands.

And now here they were. Tongues fighting for purchase in the other’s mouth, hands threading through hair and grabbing onto hips. Sherlock trailed wet kisses down John’s jaw and throat before reaching the collar of John’s button up.

“Bed,” John pleaded, “Right now, Sherlock.”

Sherlock chuckled, “Is that an order, Captain?” Sherlock’s breath tickled his ear and his deep voice seemed to have developed a direct line to John’s groin.

“No, none of that, Sherlock. We’ll sort out your military kink later. Right now it’s all I can do not to throw you on the kitchen table and fuck you into your own petri dishes.”

Sherlock groaned and drug himself up before taking John’s hand and pulling him to his bedroom. The bed was soft and deep, and the windows were open, the sounds of midday London around them.

And here we are, John thought. Life was moving all around, but time had stopped for them in this little bubble. Sherlock was in the process of stripping off John’s shirt when John had pressed his mouth to Sherlock’s neck, finding the pulse point and biting it lightly. Sherlock’s growl ripped through John’s chest.

God, why had he waited this long? He should have snogged Sherlock Holmes thoroughly that night at Angelo’s when he’d told John he was married to his work just to show him how wrong he was about that.

“Oh, fuck this,” Sherlock said, wrenching the fabric of John’s shirt apart, buttons flying off in all directions. He felt the edge of the bed hit the back of his knees. Sherlock was kneeling between his legs, his long fingers already undoing the flies of his trousers, looking every inch a wildcat.

John looked at the shirt as Sherlock threw it to the floor.

“Pity, I rather liked that one.”

“Oh, John, I promise you’ll like this so much more.” He smiled wickedly and briefly John wondered what he’d gotten himself into. And then his brain shut off as the head of his cock found the back of Sherlock’s throat.

And he had liked it. More than anything.

* * *

 

He had watched the dusk settle over Baker Street through the open windows in Sherlock’s room. Autumn had not yet come, and the gentle breeze had not yet taken on the crisp edge of night. Sherlock was strewn around him, His curly head buried in John’s chest as he slept.

Being friends with Sherlock Holmes was like being in a hurricane. Making love to him was like finding the eye of the storm. Everything slowed and sped up in lurches. Life whirled around them, but in the center of it all, they were timeless. They’d set a scorching pace, languid and heavy, that left them both screaming by the time they came. Sherlock had pulled out of John with a wince, John groaning at the loss of connection between them.

Sherlock had left the bedroom and returned seconds later with a damp flannel and tenderly cleaned John before sinking back onto the bed nestled between John’s legs.

“Sherlock,” John said quietly.

“John, not now. We’ll deal with sussing out meanings and existential crises later. Right now, I’d really like nothing more than to fall asleep listening to your heart beat.”

They were beautiful, the things that man said when he wasn’t paying attention to his brain telling him he didn’t have a heart.

“Alright, Sherlock. Sleep now. I’ll interrogate you later,” John soothed. That had been two hours ago.

He shifted his weight, and felt Sherlock jerk awake.

“Mmmmm,” he groaned roughly, “Hello, there.”

“Hi,” John smiled. A freshly woken Sherlock was truly a sight to behold. His hair was rumpled and haloed around him, his verdigris eyes warm and hazy.

“Did you sleep?” He asked, sitting up and rolling off of John before pulling himself to John’s side and settling into the pillows.

John rolled to face him, “No, I just enjoyed the view,” he teased.

Sherlock's rich laugh echoed in the quiet bedroom. “I’ve been told it’s quite good,” he bragged.

“I need to shoot whoever told you that, Sherlock,” he said, trailing his hand down his chest to his hip. “One, because they’ve seen you like that, which makes me quite angry—“

“Oh, jealous type then?” Sherlock asked lightly, his eyes dancing with mirth. John had to kiss him. So he did.

“Mm, you have no idea. Did you know I once shot a man because he took you on a taxi ride and ruined our not-quite-a-first-date? It’s hard telling what I’d do to someone who’s actually laid hands on you.” His own hand left Sherlock’s hip and made its way through the thicket of his public hair before brushing against his growing erection. Married to his work, indeed.

“And what is the second reason?” Sherlock inquired. His voice was thready and higher than normal as John’s hand stroked him lightly.

“Hmmm?”

“You said--Oh Christ, keep doing that, don’t stop doing that,” Sherlock begged.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, but continue with your previous thought,” John continued, enjoying the sight of Sherlock Holmes struggling with words.

Sherlock groaned, “You said ‘one’ implying there must be a,” Sherlock swallowed, “’two,’” Sherlock finished, panting.

John rolled over on top of him, and pressed his hips into Sherlock’s. He was rewarded with a throaty moan. He kissed a line up Sherlock’s neck to his ear before murmuring softly to him.

“Two. It is a tragedy that you were told you were any less than the most gorgeous goddamned thing on this entire Earth, Sherlock Holmes. You are, you know. You absolutely are.”

* * *

 

John had ordered Chinese takeaway, and tipped the delivery boy generously before padding his way back into Sherlock’s bedroom.

“Dinner in the bed, really? That’s not like you, John,” Sherlock stated, his hands behind his head as he leaned against the headboard, grinning like a Cheshire cat.  
“There is literally no place on the planet I’d rather be, so I won’t be denying myself. Done quite enough of that already for the likes of you, ta. Now scoot.”

They’d eaten their dinner with chopsticks, Sherlock teasing John mercilessly about his terrible form, and then gone quiet, both reveling in the companionship of the other. John had worried things may be awkward between them, but they were the same as always, just more scintillating from time to time. As the night deepened, Sherlock had yawned and fallen asleep again. John was sure this was more than he’d slept in the past three days, and went settled down beside him. He turned his back away from Sherlock, determined to give the man space, before feeling Sherlock roll towards him and wrap himself around any part of John he could find.

John breathed in the cool air of a London September and thought this the best day of his life.


	3. September 21st, 2011

**September 21st, 2011**

It had rained today. John supposed he should have remembered an umbrella, but there was nothing to be done about it now. He had a long day. The surgery was the same skull drudgery that it usually was. Sick toddlers and harping old women. He’d taken his lunch break to go see Ella, not that it helped. Nothing helped. He couldn’t describe how he felt to Ella because he didn’t. He felt like all his worries and concerns had been snipped away from him like balloon strings. They floated away, and he was still here, still solid on the ground, numbed to the bone.

He turned onto Baker Street and immediately spotted the slick, black Jaguar idling at the curb in front of his home. He sighed and pushed his way into 221B.

“Honestly Mycroft,” he said after toping the stairs and entering the flat. “Do we have to do this today?”

“Naturally, John. Sit. I’ve made tea.”

Mycroft insisted on these weekly tea times. Didn’t the man have anything else to do? Surely running Britain was a full time job.

John groaned, but was thankful for the warm tea after walking home in the cold rain.

“So, how’ve you been?” Mycroft asked.

John rolled his eyes, “Fine. Same as always.”

“The surgery must not quite meet your… needs… then?” Mycroft continued. Over two years ago Mycroft had told John he missed the battlefield. Now, all John missed was the frantic chaos of Baker Street teeming with body parts in the vegetable crisper and noxious fumes pouring from the kitchen table, that and a pair of starlight eyes.

Mycroft carried on, “Greg asked you to come back and help, you know.”

John was about to tell him exactly why that wouldn’t work, when he replayed Mycroft’s words. “It was never about the crime scenes… Wait, Greg?” John asked incredulously.

“I have been reliably informed that is the man’s name, yes,” Mycroft quipped, shifting in his seat slightly.

“Ha, yeah, I’m sure you have, Mycroft. I’m sure you have,” John chuckled. Mycroft and Greg? How the hell had that happened? Where had he been? Oh, right. He’d been busy dealing with the six-foot-one hole that had somehow ripped itself into his five-foot-seven soul.

Mycroft coughed awkwardly, “Well, it seems I do need to address the, ah, nature of my relationship with—“

“Save it for the papers Mycroft. Jesus you sound like a voice clip. We don’t have to talk about it,” Mycroft slumped slightly relieved. “I’ll just ask Greg for pints next week. He can fill me in, I suppose.” He had to bite back a laugh as Mycroft went red from chin to receding hair line. “I have to say though, Mycroft, I wouldn’t have pegged you as Greg’s type.”

“Nor would I have ‘pegged’ you as my brother’s, and yet here we are,” Mycroft bit. John nearly dropped his tea cup. He supposed logically he knew that Mycroft would have known about their… well whatever he and Sherlock had, had, though he had never acknowledged it before now. What it had been if John was honest was seven months of pure bliss, granted it was peppered with some gun shots and more than a few epic rows, but bliss all the same. It was the most meaningful segment of John’s life, a part of his life he had never told anyone about.

Mycroft looked apologetic, “John, I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

John thought for a moment, he could scream and cry. That would terrify Mycroft and keep him from visiting. He could stay in steely silence and Mycroft would likely stay until he spoke, the famous Holmes stubbornness getting the better of him. Or, John could try to let it go. Never one to dwell forever, he chose the third option for the first time since that April afternoon at St. Bart’s. It hurt, but he had to. He had to start moving again. Who the hell would have thought it would have taken an embarrassed and brash Mycroft Holmes to help him realize it?

“Well, Mycroft, no offense but you never did quite know a bleeding thing about your brother.”

“I know he cared for you more deeply than any human being has ever had right to be loved. Every breath, everything has been for you, John.”

John sat and took in that information, as Mycroft left and shut the door behind him. If John registered the change in verb tense, from past to present, it was only years later.


	4. September 21st, 2012

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is WICKED short. 
> 
> Yes, it's on purpose. Yes, it's spaced the way it is on purpose. 
> 
> The next one is HUGE and I promise it will make up for it.

**September 21st, 2012**

 

 

Mary was beautiful. She was kind, and somehow he’d worked up the courage to ask her out. He thought that if Sherlock had been here, he would have liked Mary. Then again, if Sherlock were here, he wouldn’t be on a third date with Mary at all. She would have just been another nurse he worked with at the clinic from 9 to 5 as he watched the clock wind down to when he could walk home and jump into bed with his flat mate so they could shag each other senseless before heading back out into London for another night of blood and terror.

 

 

 

But Mary was kind and funny. She understood that John had sorrow, had boundaries without ever asking about them. He was grateful for her easy comfort that neither pitied nor smothered him. She loved him. That was obvious. And she was happy to take what John had to offer, never asking for more, never pushing him too far.

 

 

He decided that night, he would eventually marry Mary because she was content to love him and be loved by him in the only way in which he could.


	5. September 21st, 2013

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Here be infidelity. Prepare thy self. 
> 
> It's going to be our constant companion for some time.

**September 21st, 2013**

 

John woke up from the umpteenth nightmare he’d had this month. The windows were open in his and Mary’s flat. The night was warm. An Indian Summer. He kicked out of bed and slipped on his shoes as quietly as possible.

“John?” Mary asked. The pregnancy made Mary dead tired and he was surprised he had roused her.

“Go back to sleep, love. I’m going to stretch my legs. I’ll be back soon.” This was old hat for them. John would get restless and go for walks all over London, trying desperately to clear his head. He’d had bad dreams before. After he’d gotten home from Afghanistan he dreamed of all the dead he could never manage to save until he woke up screaming. After St. Bart’s he dreamed of Sherlock falling to the ground over and over on continuous loop every night. He’d never wake up in the middle of the night from those dreams, but he always woke up a little more worn down than he had been the night before when he closed his eyes. Now, he was haunted by a pair of eyes, eyes he had seen looking at him from his lap, eyes he’d seen twisted with the throws of orgasm, eyes that had looked up at him unseeing from the pavement. Now they were looking at him from across the reception hall as he held his wife. His wife. It was some sort of macabre statement, that. Mary dressed in creamy ivory and Sherlock standing there, artlessly flawless in his tux, just looking at John. Saying everything he needed to with one stare before peeling off of the wall and leaving the wedding behind, John trembling in his wake.

John began walking through the quiet streets as he thought. When Sherlock had come back, he’d been furious. Not at Sherlock, but at himself. How could he have missed it? He should have realized that day how strange the things were that Sherlock had told him, how out of character they were for him. Not everyone could be Sherlock Holmes, he supposed. So he’d settled into his fury and later grabbed Sherlock by the lapels before cracking Sherlock’s nose with his head.

Sherlock had thrown himself into the wedding plans, grim faced and determined to give John and Mary this gift, the gift of his acceptance. John winced at the thought. For months, every time they looked at one another the room crackled with electricity. The Yarders actively avoided the two of them at crime scenes now as they worked nearly silent over bodies. The tension had been unbearable, and Sherlock had made that speech at the reception, that impossible speech, saying more in twenty minutes than he had in two years of friendship and more-than-friendship.

John supposed it shouldn’t surprise him that he found himself staring at the crooked knocker of 221B. Why did it still feel like home? Probably because John had woken up one day and decided home wasn’t a place, home was a person.

He heard Sherlock’s violin singing a solemn song as he opened the door, thankful that it didn’t creak. He made it up 12 stairs before the 13th let out a mutinous whine. The song stopped, but he heard no movement towards the door. Sherlock knew it was him, he always did, but he didn’t come to the door. So, he didn’t want to face this either, then. Tough.

John opened the door and there he was. Sherlock was turned towards him already, staring at the door with complete focus. John shivered. Long ago, Sherlock’s complete attention had been an aphrodisiac, now it made him vaguely nauseous because he knew what Sherlock was doing. He was trying to piece together why John had shown up at his flat a little after midnight.

John stood in the doorway for a long time wondering what the hell he was doing. Mary was across town sleeping, pregnant with his child. If he crossed this threshold, what would that mean? Would he ever be able to leave it again? Would Sherlock even want him there in the first place? He held Sherlock’s gaze, looking for any sign that would help him make his decision. Sherlock was smarter than that, though. He did nothing, not a twitch or a movement, his face completely still. If John was to make this decision, it was one that only he could make. Sherlock wanted no part in it and would not manipulate his thoughts.

 

John stepped forward; Sherlock dropped his bow.

 

They fell into each other, tearing at one another’s clothing. Sherlock bit John’s shoulder savagely, far past the threshold of pain and pleasure. His hands were brutally efficient as they undressed John and drug him into his bedroom. He shoved John into the bed before continuing his assault. Licking and biting his way down John’s body before nearly swallowing John’s cock whole.

John cried out in pleasure, his body aching against all the sensations he was experiencing. He looked down and met Sherlock’s gaze and he bobbed up and down, John’s hand lightly resting on the crown of his head. The sight was nearly enough to push him over the edge and he felt his balls tighten, his orgasm imminent. In a flash, Sherlock was gone. The tight heat of his mouth removed as he worked his way back to John’s. Sherlock’s hand reached down and gently caressed John, the difference between the punishing pace before and the soft stroke catching him off guard. Sherlock stayed silent as he began stroking John slowly from root to tip and again John felt the edges of his vision blur with impending release. Sherlock let go of him, and began kissing his neck and ear before climbing on top of John and slotting them together. He ground his hips into John’s as John bucked up eager to meet him.

“Oh God, Sherlock, oh God. Jesus fucking Christ don’t stop,” Sherlock stared him in the eye, devoid of any emotion and stopped his assault for the third time.

Then, John realized. Sherlock was punishing him. Bringing him to the very brink of pleasure and then clamping down, keeping John a heartbeat away from release.

'Oh, so that’s your game, Sherlock Holmes. Well now, two can play, certainly.' John hooked his foot around Sherlock’s leg and threw his weight into his shoulder.

Sherlock’s eyes widened in surprise to find himself now under a very furious John Watson. He felt for the first time in a long while every inch the Captain he was.

“Now, now, Sherlock. While I do love your little fucking games, you’ve had quite enough for one night,” John’s voice was low and barely above a whisper. It promised rage and pain underneath its gentle surface. “Now it’s my turn. So here’s how it’s going to go. I’m going to get off of you. I’m going to talk. Then you’re going to talk. If you don’t talk, I’m going to make you talk. And then afterword I’m going to make you beg to fuck me. And, if I decide I like what your pretty little mouth has to say, I’m going to fuck you.”

Sherlock nodded.

John pulled himself off of Sherlock and sat on the edge of the bed, Sherlock coughed and pulled away from him at the other edge of the bed leaned up against the headboard.

John sighed. “Sherlock, we’ve got to sort this out. I’ve forgiven you. I know why you left, but you can’t punish me for moving on. I had to, Sherlock. I thought you were dead, and every day I felt like a little more of me chipped away sitting in this flat, faking sleep in this bed. I met Mary and, even though I didn’t love her the way I loved you, she seemed to understand. You came back, and I was so mad Sherlock, I was so mad. I would have followed you to the gates of hell, and here I was the last to find out you’d managed to come back from the dead. Molly Hooper knew. Little Molly whom you’d never given a backwards glance. Your sodding arch-enemy of a brother knew. And I was out in the dark, left to scrape together a life from the shards of glass around me. You can’t blame me for the little hovel I’ve constructed from the rubble.

“And now, Christ look at us now. Mary’s pregnant, you know that. I can’t leave her. I can’t. It’s not fair to her or the baby. But I can’t lose you again Sherlock. I’ll die. It will kill me. It nearly did before. So here we are. What a fucking mess,” He bit off and pushed his head into his hands.

“You would choose now to tell me you love me for the first time, John.” Sherlock’s baritone was quiet and surprisingly warm. “What in God’s name made us so scared to name it before? Surely you must know, John. Surely you have always known. I love you, John. My existence orbits yours. I wouldn’t have clawed my way back to London without the promise of John Watson. I should have realized it wouldn’t be the same for you. You didn’t have all the information. Maybe part of me wanted you to move on while I was gone, that way you could confirm what I’d always known, that while I’m part of your life, you are the entirety of mine. Our love was doomed because it was so inequitable.

“I realize now that was a stupid thought. You love me John. I know it like I know the molarity of Copper and how I know what you taste like. I know it deep down in the nuclei of my cells. You love me just like I love you. And here we are, in this ‘fucking mess,’ as you so eloquently put it,” he gulped, “I find myself much in the same position as Mary, John. I love you enough to be willing to take what you will give me. It hurts my pride to say so, but here I am John. Take me how you will.”

  
“Sherlock,” John breathed, “How are we ever going to make this work?”

“Simple, John. You’re going to finish your game, if you want to. Though, I’m doubting Captain Watson is making another appearance tonight. You’re then going home to your wife. Tomorrow, in the daylight, you’re going to meet me at Angelo’s and we’re going to suss this out in a way in which you can live your life.”

  
“And you?” John asked, “What about you Sherlock?”

Sherlock laughed, “Easy. Like I said John,” he was crawling towards John now, “I take what I can get and I won’t ask you for more.” Sherlock captured John’s mouth gently now and John felt longing stretch over him again.

* * *

 

Several hours later, near dawn John sank back down into his bed. Mary didn’t wake up, but did curl around him as he lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. The guilt felt as though it would press him through the mattress. Two hours later, Mary woke up, and John was still in the same position, still staring at the ceiling.

“Rough night?” She asked.

John looked at her in surprise, but realizing that she was just talking about the nightmares, closed his eyes in relief and nodded. “Yeah, I couldn’t get back to sleep.”  
“You really should go see Sherlock,” she said. John stilled again, his heart volleying through his chest. “You always sleep better after you and he go off on one of your adventures.”

John thought and in a moment of brilliance, realized he could use this to his advantage. “Right, well about that. I went to Sherlock’s last night on my walk, and I think he’s got a case on that he needs me for. It may take a couple of days.”

“Well you aren’t scheduled at the surgery until Wednesday,” she considered, “and Janine has been wanting a hen night for ages. Yes,” she smiled brightly, “You should go. He misses you, and I know you miss him. Go have fun.”

* * *

  
 _Meet me at Angelo’s at 12 even if it’s absolutely, impossibly inconvenient._ – JW

 _You need to work on your excessive use of adverbs, John. Make it 11. For once I find myself famished_. – SH

 

John found himself at the little table at Angelo’s at 10:55. Angelo didn’t bother with the candle in broad daylight, but John couldn’t help feel like this was the date they’d never had that night. True to his word, Sherlock whirled in promptly at 11 AM, his eyes still burning as they had last night when John sank into him.

“John,” he greeted.

“Sherlock,” he returned. “I do hope you’re free for the next two days.” John continued as Angelo brought wine to the table.

Sherlock regarded him warily. “I may be. Depends on what you have in mind.”

“Mary suggested I should spend more time with you. I now have the next two days, free and clear.” He said.

He had expected Sherlock to grin or go still, he wasn’t prepared for Sherlock to lean in closer and look at him pointedly. “We’ll think about it. First we need to lay ground work.”

“What do you mean think about it? What’s there to think about?”

“Everything, John. For starters, you didn’t sleep last night. At all. Even after you left. If I was a betting man I’d say the guilt nearly wore you down to threads. When Mary suggested this little escape, which you no doubt prompted, you were so relieved that you forgot all about it. But I guarantee you, if I took you back to Baker Street in the light of day, within ten minutes it would all hit you. You’re cheating on your wife. You’re cheating on your wife with your best friend, who helped you plan your wedding, who was your best man and whom you love desperately, just like he loves you. I won’t have you have a full blown panic attack about this John. We’ll talk this out now.”

Angelo came back and with a snap Sherlock ordered for the both of them, handing Angelo the menus.

John wished he could tell Sherlock he was wrong, but he wasn’t. “Have I told you lately how brilliant you are?”

“No,” Sherlock said, “but even if you had, it’s not something I’ll ever grow tired of.” Sherlock smirked.

“Okay, so ground rules then.”

“First, I think we have to limit this. There have to be set days.”

“Okay, well I generally don’t work Tuesdays,” John began.

Sherlock grimaced, “John, you aren’t getting it. I’m going to say something. And you won’t like it, but’s logical.”

“Alright.”

“Once a year,” Sherlock said.

“What!? Once a year?”

“Yes, John. That’s my first term. I want you, unbridled one day a year. Any more than that and I won’t be able to control myself, any less and I’ll put a bullet in my head.”

John hissed at the words. Once a year? Could he really contain it? Could he really agree to one day a year? “No,” John said. “I have two days this time. It will be two days every time.”

Sherlock paused, shocked, “You’re actually agreeing to this?”

John rolled his eyes, “Well Sherlock when you say it’s a non-negotiable like that, yeah, I agree. What livable alternative would I have? Now I’m countering. I have two days. I want two days. Two full days, mind. Obviously not this year, but every year after. I meet you at Baker Street at 12:01 AM on the first day. No questions. No exceptions. I don’t care if the Queen herself is murdered in the middle of Speedy’s at 12:02, I get two days.”

Sherlock considered and then nodded. John continued, “Also, if I show up, and you aren’t there, then it’s done. It stops. I won’t come back the next year. We’ll go back to friendship and we’ll leave it.”

“And if you don’t come?” Sherlock snapped.

John looked at him steadily, “That will never be an issue, Sherlock. I’ve made it my life’s business following you. I intend to continue to do so until I die.” Sherlock’s eyes softened. “So how do we conduct ourselves the rest of the time?” John asked.

“Simple. As we always have. We’re best friends. I intend to keep it that way. We go to Mycroft’s stupid litte dinner parties with Garrett—“

“Greg, Jesus, Sherlock the man’s name is Greg. You did die for him you know,” John sighed, some things never changed.

“Right well, main point being, we carry on. Same as always.”

“Why are you doing this, Sherlock? Like I asked before, what’s in it for you? I mean, I get it all, don’t I? Get to keep you and Mary, the cake and the eating.”  
“I get you, John. I get to walk around knowing that ultimately, you’re mine in a way in which you are no one else’s, even Mary. Mary gets domesticity, Mary gets the day in, day out. I get your friendship, and every so often, I get to spend two days with you however I want. It isn’t perfect, but it never was going to be. Not after everything.”

The food came and John focused on eating; Sherlock ignored his food entirely and stared at John as he ate.

“One more request,” Sherlock said.

“Alright.” John sat his utensils down.

“I want it to be this day. This set of days, every year.”

“Okay, why so specific?” John questioned.

“Because three years ago today you and I got back from Dartmoor. Call it sentiment,” Sherlock stated.

John closed his eyes, remembering how simple it had all been then.

“Agreed.” John said shortly. This felt right. Despite all his misgivings, this felt like a small bubble of sanity in all of this chaos. He would be a good husband to Mary, he would love her and their children. He would protect them all and he would never thrust this in her face. She would never know and he would respect Sherlock’s boundaries.

“In fact,” Sherlock leaned in, licking his lips slowly, “I believe we got home at, oh, around 11:45,” he glanced down to John’s half eaten plate of pasta, “Hungry?” Sherlock asked.

“Oh, God yes.” And away they went, a nice tip for Angelo left on the table.


End file.
